


salvation

by whaticameherefor



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Happily Ever After, Hopeless Romantics, Light Angst, Short & Sweet, blink and you'll miss it angst, conflicted! betty, cuz i said so, flangst, serpent! jughead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaticameherefor/pseuds/whaticameherefor
Summary: Prompt: A church tucked away on the edge of town with only a glowing cross to light it up: Jughead, having gotten in too deep with the Serpents and feeling like there’s no way out except to keep diving deeper, finds himself visiting a church late one night, where he finds Betty, a girl who is getting married there the next day and isn’t sure whether she’s making the right choice.





	salvation

**Author's Note:**

> A hearty thank you to @kmlefev for crafting this prompt and letting me run away with it. 
> 
> As always, lots of love to my betas: @writeraquamarinara, @indiebughead, & @redundantoxymorons. Three betas are better than one!
> 
> This one's a short and sweet little thang, so please enjoy!

* * *

 

He’s not entirely sure how he ended up here.

 

Well, that’s not strictly true. He knows how he ended up _here_ , in this specific geographical location. He stormed out of the Wyrm, hopped on his bike, turned the ignition, and started driving. He just kept going. He didn’t even think to look back.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up _here_ , at this particular juncture of life. The figurative _here_.

 

He supposes that it has all become too much. All this Serpent King business. He’d kept getting deeper and deeper into his new lifestyle and he’d never been sure how, when the time came, he’d be able to get himself out of it. _If_ he could even get out.

 

He’d felt out of place amongst the others at first, so when the opportunity presented itself to be their leader, to be the one to help shape them as a gang, he jumped at it. He wanted to prove himself worthy, to make the decisions that would be in the gang’s best interest. How was he supposed to know that helping the Serpents find a new identity would make him lose his own?

 

He’s so lost in thought he almost doesn’t see the tattered old white building at the end of the road with a glowing golden cross affixed on the front face.

 

 _What the hell?_ he thinks as he comes to a stop, cutting the ignition on his bike in front of the peculiar church. He has never been one for religion, but it’d probably be a quiet place to think. Alone.

 

He climbs the stairs two at a time, forces open the large, ornate doors of the old church, hinges creaking and groaning as he pushes his way across the threshold. He’s looking at the floor, deciding whether or not to venture any further, when he hears a noise from the front. He looks up cautiously and sees a young woman stand up and turn, startled.

 

“Oh, hi,” the girl manages at the sudden arrival of the young, attractive man clad in a leather jacket, dark jeans, and combat boots—decidedly not a sight she ever thought she’d see here, especially not at this hour of the night.

 

“Uh, hello?”

 

“I thought I heard something outside.” She tilts her head to the side to peer past him through the open doors for visual confirmation of what he’d been driving. She could have sworn she heard a motorcycle, but seeing nothing, she rights herself with a confused look on her face.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” He starts backing away from the girl, wanting to put enough distance between them to make her feel comfortable but unwilling to tear his gaze away from her. She’s beautiful, wearing a white dress with a fitted bodice with a flared skirt, blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, sad, green eyes staring so intently at him, and skin so supple that it’s all he can do to stop himself from reaching out to stroke her cheek.

 

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, taking a few small steps down the aisle. “I could actually use some company. Stay.” She tilts her head at him again, curious. “What’s your name?”

 

“Now, why do you wanna know my name?” He shakes his head, smiling, his rough exterior fading fast.

 

“I like to know the names of people I’m talking to,” she responds matter of factly.

 

He dips his head down to hide his growing smile. He clears his throat when he’s finally brave enough to meet her eye. “Fair enough. It’s Jughead.”

 

She wears a brilliant smile as she takes a few more steps toward him. “Is that your _real_ name?” she asks with a teasing lilt to her voice.

 

Jughead chuckles lightly, shaking his head once more. “It’s a nickname.”

 

“Oh,” she answers, bringing her finger up to her chin in consideration. She looks at the man before her and quickly decides that, for whatever reason, she can trust this stranger with the kind blue eyes and jet black hair. “Okay. I’m Betty.”

 

She manages to close the rest of the distance between them and holds her hand out for him to shake. When he takes her palm in his, their eyes meet. It’s incredibly ironic that as a writer, Jughead’s not sure he has the words to fully describe how it feels to hold her hand in that moment. It’s nothing short of electric, intoxicating, completely distracting. He reluctantly pulls away before he becomes fully addicted to the feeling of her skin on his. He thinks fleetingly that she felt it too—he’d seen it in her eyes.

 

She twirls around, the full skirt of her dress fanning out as she turns and walks back toward the front, taking a seat in the first row, patting the bench next to her. Jughead follows and slides into the pew. Feeling bold, he starts up the conversation. “So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

 

She grins at his attempt to be smooth. “And what kind of girl do you think I am?”

 

He reaches out to her skirt, lifting the hem of the lacey fabric up and cocking an eyebrow in answer.

 

She swats his hand away playfully and giggles before sighing. “Fine, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

 

Jughead chokes out a cough and bangs a fist on his chest. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath to ask, “What do you mean?”

 

“Despite the whole—” she waves her hand up and down “—brooding bad boy thing you’ve got going on–which is very intriguing, by the way,” she teases. “The same question applies: What are _you_ doing out here in the middle of the night, Jughead?”

 

He tears his gaze from the altar in front of him to look at her again. The feeling that he can be honest with her is overwhelming, so he doesn’t hesitate to tell her the truth. “I’m kind of at a bit of a crossroads in life, it seems.” His hand falls to the space between them on the bench and his eyes drop to his lap. “I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing anymore.”

 

She sees him, head hung low, confused and upset, and she can’t stop herself from reaching out to cover his hand with her own. “Trust me,” she tells him as his eyes meet hers again. “I understand.”

 

“I was thinking about running away,” he confesses. “I came here to think about it. Seemed like a nice, quiet place.”

 

“And you ended up with me.” She curls her hand and threads her fingers through his, squeezing once to reassure him.

 

“It’s not so bad,” he whispers, eyes shining. Her breath catches as they stare back at one another for a beat too long, given that they’re still strangers. They break their gaze at the same time, shyly. “So, what about you? What’s your story, Betty?”

 

She pulls her hand back and sits up straight, tucking her hair behind her ears as she lowers her head. Jughead thinks she might have changed her mind about wanting to talk, because it seems like minutes pass before she finally speaks. When she does, her voice is soft, sad. He has to lean closer to hear her. “I’m supposed to be getting married here tomorrow.”

 

He’s been punched in the gut before—during the gauntlet or the occasional rumble with the Ghoulies—but the feeling that hits him just then is somehow worse. Anger, jealousy, despair, and confusion all rolled into one. He’s not sure why he cares that this woman he’s only just met already belongs to someone else, but he does. “Oh,” he starts, not really sure what his next words will be. “I’d say congratulations, but it doesn’t appear those are in order.”

 

She smiles despite herself and regards him fondly. “How could you tell?”

 

“I have a sense for these things,” he says, brushing his thumb against his nose. Wanting to know more, he presses on. “So, what then? Cold feet?”

 

“No,” she says automatically, forgetting she doesn’t need to keep her guard up. Not tonight, not with him. “Yes. I guess. I don’t know. How long does that usually last?”

 

“I’m probably not the best person to ask,” he says with a dry laugh. “I think it’s just right before, though. Don’t quote me on that.”

 

“Oh.” She stares at her hands, clasped on her lap. She should have realized that what she was feeling was no ordinary case of pre-wedding nerves. But she’d ignored every negative feeling that cropped up since the night of the proposal, making excuses each time, squashing any errant thought before it had the chance to take root in her mind, in her heart and force her to stop and think about what she was doing.

 

She’d succeeded so far. Until tonight at the rehearsal dinner, when she’d been bombarded with all the questions she’d been quietly asking herself for months. It had been all too easy to lie to her family and friends— _“Yes, I’m so excited to get married!”_ and _“No, absolutely no doubts here!”_ —but all the while she’d been screaming inside.

 

It had been all too much. So after she’d bid all her guests goodnight, she found herself wandering the grounds of her hotel. She had just kept walking until she reached the church she was to be married in the very next day. Maybe here she could find some peace. She glances at the man sitting dangerously close to her and she thinks that she may have found something better.

 

“I don’t think it’s cold feet,” she responds finally. “I was thinking about running away too.”

 

Jughead nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Do you love him?”

 

She laughs at how simple he makes it sound. She supposes it should be. “He’s a wonderful man.”

 

He ducks his head to try and meet her eye line. “That’s not what I asked, Betty.”

 

She turns her head away, trying to fight back the tears she feels building. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

His hands reach out toward hers, taking them both in his own but keeping them low on her lap. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing that matters when you’re getting married.”

 

Their eyes meet again, conveying all the emotions neither one has fully recognized or admitted to themselves. Their breathing is the only sound in the quiet place of worship. This time, neither one breaks their gaze.

 

“What are you running from?” Betty whispers, their faces growing closer by the second. She realizes what she’s doing and pulls back, hand moving to grasp the shoulder of his leather jacket. “Is it them? Your gang?”

 

He listens for any judgment in her words and hears none, thankfully, only curiosity. He nods.

 

“So I did hear a motorcycle before!” she exclaims, proud of herself, and Jughead smiles in return. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Her eyes scan his face and then sweep over his body. He’s completely covered, any bruises could easily be hidden.

 

“No, no, nothing like that.” She breathes a sigh of relief, her hand coming to rest on his upper arm. “It wasn’t one thing,” he reasons. “It was everything. I just feel like I’m in over my head sometimes. So many people want to see me fail. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of being right, but I don’t know if my heart is in it anymore.”

 

“We’re quite the pair,” Betty jokes.

 

He quirks his lips into a wry smile. “Definitely a dynamic duo.”

 

She laughs brightly, eyes twinkling in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. One of his curls comes loose and she doesn’t think twice about sweeping it back into place. She’s so incredibly close to him now, and she’s consumed by the need to kiss him. Her eyes flicker down to his lips and then back up to his own. He licks his lips, eyes trained on her mouth. She moves quickly before she loses her nerve, grasping his jacket to pull him even closer, and her lips meet his. They kiss chastely, lips moving against each other slowly, reverently.

 

He reaches up to palm her cheek and pulls away. “Betty…”

 

“Take me with you,” she begs. “Let’s just go. Let’s leave and not look back.”

 

“Betty, we can’t.”

 

“I don’t love him. You said it yourself, that’s all that matters. I can’t do this. Especially now that I know—”

 

“Don’t say it, please, don’t say it.” He pushes himself up to standing and starts to pace, hands tented in front of his face. He stops and breathes out, dragging his palms over his mouth. “This is crazy. We just met. We can’t do this.”

 

Betty walks defiantly towards him. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way,” she demands. “Tell me that you could just walk out of this church tonight and never think about me again.”

 

Jughead sighs, resigned, and mutters, “I could never forget you.” Betty continues to walk toward him, takes one of his hands in hers and laces her fingers through his while her other hand threads through the back of his hair, bringing their foreheads together. Jughead’s free hand settles at the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw. “Would you really come with me?”

 

Betty nods, finally letting the tears fall. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” Jughead bends his head to capture her lips in another kiss, savoring every moment. When they part, they’re both smiling and Betty asks excitedly, “Are we really doing this?”

 

Jughead ensures her hand is firmly in his grip before he turns around and strides toward the open doors. They bound down the steps, halting at the foot of the stairs in front of his motorcycle. He hands her his helmet, grinning as she accepts it. She bites her lip, hesitating.

 

“What’s your real name, Jughead?”

 

“Now, why do you wanna know my name?” he razzes.

 

“I like to know the names of people I run away with,” she responds cheekily.

 

Jughead laughs and nods. “My name’s Forsythe Pendleton Jones, the third.”

 

“That’s a mouthful,” she says, frowning.

 

He rolls his eyes affectionately. “Get on before I change my mind.” He swings his legs over the bike, holding his hand out to help her up. Betty tugs the helmet on, secures the snap under her chin, and takes his hand as she climbs on behind him. He turns as much as he can on the seat and instructs her to hold on tight.

 

She nods, arms snaking around Jughead’s torso, clutching her palms together in front of his stomach. He kicks out the stand and starts the ignition, lifting his head to set his sights on the road. He eases the bike off the dirt patch and back onto the pavement.

 

They don’t look back.  



End file.
